The Ten Commandments and the Turning Point
by DaybyDay
Summary: PreRent, Roger!Withdrawal fic. In the sixth months he spent in Catholic school before getting thrown out as a lost cause, Roger Davis had managed to take with him only one lesson: The 10 Commandments.


**Disclaimer:We do not own Rent.**

**Author's Note: This story was co-written by Carissa. Here on her penname is _fadeinonme_, and on livejournal, she is _chibidragon_.** We co-wrote this for speedrent and had a blast. She was amazing to work with and she's an amazing writer, so check her out (she's on my favorite authors list!).

**The Ten Commandments and Where the Turning Point Was**

In the sixth months he spent in Catholic school (before getting thrown out as a lost cause), Roger Davis had managed to take with him only one lesson: The 10 Commandments. In school, every time you broke a commandment a nun hit you on the hand with a ruler.

Roger broke them often.

So by the end of the day, 10 year old Roger Davis would walk home with red hands stuffed into the pockets of tight jeans, muttering about "fucking Sisters and their rulers" and wishing he could run to New York City.

To this day whenever he broke a commandment his hands ached and he heard one of the Sisters' voices in his head.

-------------------------------

Roger stumbled into the loft. He should probably try to not make a lot of noise, but he just didn't fucking care anymore. The rocker was just barely coming off of his last high and already he needed another.

Roger grabbed on to the table for support, eyes wild as he looked around the loft trying to remember where he'd hidden his stash. The emergency stash. This was a fuckin emergency.

But he couldn't remember... couldn't think.

Roger crossed to the kitchen in a few angry strides, opening cabinet after cabinet throwing food, pots, cups, silverware, to the ground in a messy heap.

_Where is it?_

He remembered hiding it. Had a distinct remember of thinking that it would be safe there. The secret emergency stash that only he knew about.

And he knew about it.

But he couldn't remember…

_Where? _

Where is it?

It was all he could think.

It was all he wanted to think.

---------------

It was funny to Mark that Roger was making such a commotion, because he thought he'd at least have the sense to even attempt to be quiet. But Roger didn't see Mark sitting on the couch, didn't know the filmmaker's eyes were following him as he cursed and yelled and upturned anything in his path. Didn't know that Mark's anger, something that usually lay dormant and most often ceased to exist, was building and building, and fuck- he couldn't just sit there anymore.

"What the fuck are you doing?" He asked, voice low with a calm rage that could be mistaken as confusion or disinterest.

The commotion stopped then, a musician frozen in time.

"Jesus Christ! Nothing!" Roger replied. "God damnit, leave me the fuck alone."

His hands ached sharply.

A commandment broken.

_Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain._

He turned and stared at Mark, his aching hands hidden in the cabinet above him.

"I need it." Roger said at last and turned back to his frantic search, "I need it. It has to be here somewhere. Fuck where is it? Where is it?"

_Where is it? _

The cabinets were nearly empty. The last item was a glass bowl that had never been used. But there was no heroin inside it. No fucking emergency stash. He threw the bowl to the ground in frustration, not even noticing it shatter on the floor beneath him.

From his spot on the couch, the shattering of the bowl (a gift from his mother a earlier that year - it was never used but Mark liked it's presence - it meant that they had something nice in that piece of shit loft, just in case) was pretty much symbolic for the shattering of the dam of calmness he'd been holding since - well, since everything changed.

He couldn't remember later how or when he'd crossed the loft, or how or when he'd (or what possessed him, even) decided to physically restrain Roger, but that's what he did. With a serious growl, he found himself with a forearm pressed to a neck and a knee in Roger's stomach, his other hand pinning the guitarists' against his own chest.

"You don't need anything," He said, voice dark and scary even to himself.

Roger grunted at the pain and pressure being placed upon him. He could hardly focus on what Mark was doing or saying. Only part of him realized that it was his roommate, his best friend was holding him against a wall. That wasn't what was important.

Hit.

He needed a hit.

"Fuck you!" The words came out strained and broken because of the immense pressure Mark's arm put on his throat. "Let go! I need it! I need it! Get the fuck off!"

He was losing it, losing the numbing powers that heroin provided for too short a time. Roger was starting to feel again and he couldn't handle it. Couldn't handle living without that drug running through his veins.

Roger struggled underneath the grasp; with every move he made the knee found its way further into his stomach. His hands pulled Mark's arm away from his neck. He pushed using the strength of his entire body to propel them both from the wall, tangled in a mass of flailing, punching, kicking arms and legs.

The tumble to the floor was a brutal one, and the piercing pain in his shoulder Mark experienced as they hit the concrete confirmed that this was going to get worse before it got better. He was slightly aware of the shattered glass not far from where Roger currently had him pinned down, but at the same time, it didn't truly register in his brain how bad that could possibly be until, as he covered his face to dodge Roger's sporadic swinging, he felt his shoulder get wet, and the realization that the sharp pain in his shoulder was not just the force of hitting the floor but a glass shard embedded in his shoulder ran through him.

"Stop!" He yelled, body tensing as Roger leaned over him, screaming and screaming incoherently, "Roger! Look at what you're doing! LOOK AT WHAT YOU'RE DOING!"

The hitting didn't stop and Mark's chest began to hurt from the blows - and instead of calming down, instead of giving up, he felt the anger continue to rise. With a brutal shove that he didn't know he had in him, Mark knocked Roger off of his feet and rolled them both away from the glass shards, not even flinching as Roger's temple hit the edge of the table with a sharp crack. Pinning his roommate down on the floor, hands on his shoulders and knee holding down his hands, Mark ignored Roger's pained groan. He touched his hurt shoulder gingerly, wincing when he felt the piece of glass protruding from his shoulder and then groaning at the sight of blood on his hand. Leaning down in Roger's face, Mark felt his body shiver with anger and his eyes sparkle with rage.

"Do you see this?" He raised a hand to show Roger the blood- but Roger turned away. With his clean hand, Mark grabbed Roger's chin and tilted his head towards Mark's bloody palm, "You see this! This is all for heroin, Roger. You did this for drugs. For artificial happiness. You've got to be fucking kidding me."

With that, he pushed up and off his roommate using Roger's chest as leverage and stood.

Roger did everything for heroin. He sacrificed his arms and his life to the drug's altar, worshipping in the spiritual, physical, and mental high it gave him.

His hands started aching again. Another broken commandment.

_I am the Lord thy God, thou shalt not have strange gods before Me._

Lying on the ground, breath sharp in his chest, Roger struggled to stand, but the image of Mark's bloody hand was all he could see. It reminded him of those videos the Sisters showed of Jesus Christ being crucified on a hill below a dark sky. The Sister's showed it to them to pound into the student's brains how guilty they should feel. The old movie would cut to the bleeding feet, to the bleeding side, to the bleeding hands, and finally to Jesus' head, covered in blood and crowned with thorns.

_Watch children! Don't look away from the blood, from the feet, the hands, and the head. Watch! _

See how he sacrifices himself!

He suffers for your_ sins. _

You did this to him.

Roger finally stood watched the blood from Mark's hand fall to the ground. An immense amount of guilt ripped him apart. Fuck, he hated feeling. Fuck, he needed his Heroin. He needed to worship, to sacrifice till he died. His whole body was shaking.

"I'm… I…" It was a struggle for words, but when he finally found them they were defeated and hollow sounding, "Fuck it. Fuck this. You shouldn't get in my way. You shouldn't try to stop me…"

_Shouldn't try to save me._

And it was silent, and it was still, and it was deafening and painful and excruciating. These two men at a standoff, so close and so far. Mark's rage hadn't gone anywhere, it lay dormant and burning his chest. He could practically feel the bruises forming on his chest, on his face, on his stomach. On the other hand, the blood that's been running down his back was beginning to cool and he felt light-headed. Suddenly, his knees buckled and he hit the floor, the dizziness overwhelming him.

Roger watched his best friend fall, a pillar of strength finally coming in on itself. He didn't know what to feel, didn't know what to do. His veins felt empty, hollow, and the pain was setting in. What he needed was the sickness to be gone. What he needed was to be healthy, have his guitar in one hand and a microphone in the other. What he needed was his redheaded fiery spirit by his side, all smiles and long kisses and caressing touches.

But that wasn't his life, not anymore. All he had left was poisoned blood and a best friend who thought he knew what was good for him but didn't. Mark didn't understand his pain. He couldn't. He had to make a choice, the freedom of intoxication or his best friend.

And as he stood there, watching Mark cradle his head in his arms and mumble something about the earth spinning, Roger knew that the intoxication was winning the battle, that the pain was too much to just ignore it.

Two large steps and he found himself kneeling over Mark, placing his hands over his roommate's and tears running down his cheeks. Mark looked up, eyes dazed and far away, as Roger shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Mark, I can't do this. I need this, I need it, you need to understand. This isn't about you, not anymore. I didn't mean to hurt you." He whined, voice gruff and helpless.

He pulled Mark's hands away from his face and stared at him, needing Mark to understand, needing Mark to know that he cared about him, that he appreciated him - but needed this just a bit more. He leaned forward and did the only thing that came to mind to get Mark to understand - he kissed him, lips rain dropping little pecks on his forehead, cheeks, once on the lips. Mark hardly responded and Roger's hands ached, April's face flashing in his mind.

_Thou shalt not commit adultery._

And Roger was pulling away as though he'd been shocked, a new strain of guilt coursing through him in between his hollow veins. He had to stop feeling, stop remembering. Roger needed heroin. His veins were too fucking empty.

Heroin.

He couldn't even see Mark anymore through the haze. If he had money he could have heroin. Roger pulled the couch cushions up scratching his own arms in his desperate flailing attempt to get at money. He was shaking and sweating. Desperate, wild eyes searched with only one purpose.

Mark's coat on the ground caught his attention. Roger pulled it up, searched the pockets and pulled out the small wad of cash from inside, desperately fingering through it. Enough? It would be enough. His heart raced in his chest. Time to forget, time to worship again. He pulled Mark's money into his own pocket. He ignored the ache in his hands.

_Thou shalt not steal._

Another commandment broken as he stormed out of the loft in desperation again. All thoughts of Mark, of his life, of fuckin catholic school erased from his mind. There was only heroin.

_Just one hit. _

Just need to forget her face.

Just need it.

I need it.

The trip to his dealer's, handing over the sweaty wad of green, grabbing the small bag of white powder, was nothing more than a blur to Roger by the time he walked up the stairs to the loft with it cradled in his hand. Something pricked at the back of his mind and would not leave him alone. It was about blood and guilt and Jesus. It was about his best friend. It was about being saved.

_You don't deserve to be saved. _

Watch the hands, children, see how he suffers for you.

See how he suffers…

But he couldn't pin it down. And with the small bag in his hand nothing else really mattered. Roger opened the door to the loft, headed for his bedroom, headed to worship to sacrifice to give his veins over one time to his drug, his god.

"Don't you dare, Roger," And it was Collins' voice shivering through him. It was Collins' voice, not Mark's that stopped him this time. Feet frozen to the ground, Roger scratched at his arm, needing it to go away, the pain to go away, the guilt to go away.

"Collins-"

"Turn around, Roger." Warning, piercing, frightening. Mark's voice was always light and he never seemed intimidating. Collins was tall and was much tougher than Mark. He'd seen a lot in his lifetime. Roger took a deep breath to ward off the shivering and turned, not prepared for the sight to face him. Mark was sitting on a chair with his shirt off, leaning forward onto the metal table with his head buried in his folded arms. On the table before him was gauze and peroxide and antiseptic, and Collins was standing over him, wearing rubber gloves. His eyes were ablaze, anger radiating off of him in waves.

Roger's eyes flickered over the bloodstains tainting Mark's back, the deep gash on the shoulder, and he swayed a bit, withdrawal and nausea pulling over him.

"Roger, come here right now." Stern, dark, serious. Roger had never heard Collins talk in that tone, not ever. Not even through the worst of the highs, when Roger did the stupidest shit. This was a different Collins, and he wasn't playing around. Shoving his shaking hands in his pockets, Roger fingered the little baggy in reassurance.

_Soon the need will be gone. _

Soon enough.

"Come. Here." Stern, dark serious. A shiver ran through Roger's body as he crept closer, eyes falling to the floor. He didn't hear Collins move, didn't even know the other man had approached him - not until he felt one hand on the back of his neck and one grab a hand out of his pocket. He yelped as Collins yanked him closer to Mark, fingers tightening his hold on him, until Roger felt a sharp pinch in his neck and a deep ache around his wrist. He struggled a bit, but stilled as Collins pushed him right up behind Mark and forced him to look down at the blond. Roger tried to look away with no avail, Collins' tight grip held him to face what he'd caused.

Suddenly, that voice, that stern, dark, serious voice was right in his ear and the hold was getting tighter and tighter -

"Do you see what you did?"

Bloodstains, a deep gash. Mark's shoulders were convulsing in silent sobs. Collins was shivering with anger behind him.

"Look at what you did, Roger."

_Watch children! Don't look away from the blood, from the feet, the hands, and the head. Watch! _

See how he sacrifices himself!

He suffers for your_ sins. _

You did this to him.

"He could have died, Roger. He could be dead."

_You did_ this to him.

He could be_ dead_, because of _you_.

"He could be dead and it would've been his blood on your hands. Because he cared, because he loved you. Because you can't give up on something that couldn't even bring a tenth of the happiness he could bring you if you just stopped being a coward. She's DEAD, Roger. And you almost killed him because you can't get over it."

But April was dead because of him, was dead because of his introductions to the world of heroin and it's fucked up members.

_He sacrifices himself for you, he's hurt because of you, he's nearly dead because of you._

And suddenly, the tears come and they're streaming down Roger's face, and Collins is still talking and warning, but Roger can't hear it, can't understand it, not anymore.

All he can feel is the pain, the withdrawal, the guilt. All he can see is Mark, blood stained and broken, because of him.

And his fucking hands begin to ache, because he's broken the worst commandment of them all. He's broken it and his hands hurt and he can hear the nuns in his head, yelling, condemning him to hell for his sins.

_Thou shalt not kill._

So when Collins' grip tightens and he asks where the powder is, he hands it over. He hands it to him through sobs and hysterical, nonsensical apologies, because it was at that moment that he realized he couldn't kill Mark too.

Not his Mark.


End file.
